


ARGENTUM ORICHALCUM AESQUE: Silver, Brass, and Copper

by hoc_voluerunt



Series: SPQR [14]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Ancient Greece & Rome, Alternate Universe - Ancient Rome, Alternate Universe - Historical, Ancient Rome, Hand Jobs, M/M, Sharing a Bed, Story: The Adventure of the Copper Beeches
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-14
Updated: 2016-06-14
Packaged: 2018-07-12 15:17:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7110967
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hoc_voluerunt/pseuds/hoc_voluerunt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Vannus is healing, though not as fast as Celatus would like, and Viola Venatrix is a slave with a very curious offer of employment. It puts a trip to Ostia in the works; and along with Ostia comes a curious villa with copper walls, a family's secrets, and a double bed in a tavern.</p>
            </blockquote>





	ARGENTUM ORICHALCUM AESQUE: Silver, Brass, and Copper

**Author's Note:**

> Latin translations in mouseover text, or in [this post](http://hoc-voluerunt.livejournal.com/39859.html).

            “No, it isn’t healed yet.”

            “But why _not?”_

            Vannus pursed his lips over gritted teeth, marching a half-step ahead of Celatus on their way to the Porta Capena. The news had reached them that morning of the emperor’s solemn resignation, but everyone – even Celatus, politically useless as he was – knew how little that meant with half the imperial army on Rome’s doorstep. Vannus’ sword was strapped to his belt under his cloak.

            And it was meant to be Saturnalia.

            The markets were unusually empty, as was to be expected for the season, but the quiet streets were eerie in the knowledge that there should have been revels and laughter, instead of a senator barricaded in on the Capitol. The dawn was cold and fresh after the night’s rain, and Vannus’ left shoulder ached, his right stung, and his leg was stiff, not helping in his quest to keep ahead of Celatus as he led their little parade to find Valerius Laevinus.

            Celatus huffed behind him.

            “I don’t know why _I_ have to come along on your ridiculous mission.”

            Vannus felt his jaw twitch.

            “Do you remember what happened the last time you tried to survive a siege of the city without me?” he snapped. “We’re not being separated until this is over.”

            “Until _what_ is over?” Celatus whined. “So Vitellius tried to abdicate, it didn’t work, why would anyone –”

            Vannus tried and failed to hold a groan of frustration behind his tightly closed mouth. “Mithras and Mars, you are impossible aren’t you?” he threw back over his shoulder. “Vitellius’ legions have fallen one by one in front of Vespasian’s forces – I _know_ my old commander, Celatus, do you really think he’ll stand back and do nothing while his brother is being besieged by an ex-emperor’s troops?”

            They had reached the Porta Capena, and the vigiles’ quarters, unguarded and quiet. No one stopped them from pushing through the building to Laevinus’ usual quarters, where they found Dido and one of the watchmen talking in hushed and hurried voices behind Laevnius’ broad desk.

            “Dido,” Vannus sighed, in half-relief. “What can you tell us?”

            “Not now, Piso,” she bit out, barely looking away from her colleague. “Approach from the north and keep yourself unseen,” she went on, heedless of Celatus’ bristling, “find out what the situation is in the Forum and the Capitoline, we have to hope that Vitellius’ forces are stopped before they can make it through the city.” She nodded once, dismissing the soldier, and turned to Vannus and Celatus. Vannus saw then that, even in the dimly-lit room, she was noticeably frazzled, her hair wild about her face and her eyes shadowed by unrest. “Stay away from the Capitol,” she said. “That’s all I can tell you.”

            “Where’s Laevinus?” Vannus returned, and was met with condescension.

            “He’s _working._ We both are. I don’t know where he is.”

            “Do you have _any_ information about Vespasian’s forces?” Vannus insisted, but Dido only shut her eyes with a quick sigh.

            “Only that they’re almost definitely near,” she said. “We are not a legion, Piso, we don’t have troops to send outside the city to find these things out.”

            Behind Vannus, Celatus muttered something which sounded like “Sollemnis doesn’t need troops...”, but Vannus ignored him.

            “Please tell us you’ll keep yourselves safe,” he said to Dido, whose mouth turned into a wry curl.

            “Can you promise me the same?”

            Vannus was forced to concede the argument.

            “Will you let us know if anything happens?” he said instead of protesting, making Dido laugh once.

            “We’ll do our best,” she drawled. “But you know that won’t be our first priority until this mess is over.”

            Vannus held his hand out over the table. After a moment, Dido grasped it in return.

            “Then I pray this mess will be over soon,” he said. “Let me know if there’s anything I can do to help you.”

            They held their grip on each other for just a moment longer: though Celatus and Dido were not close, Vannus knew that there was no one they could trust more to protect both the city and their friend. Moments later, Vannus and Celatus were back out on the street, where the smell of smoke drifted over the city in first light.

            “We’re going to your brother’s,” Vannus declared, and did not need to see Celatus’ face to know how his lip was curling.

            “No time like Saturnalia to do something outrageously stupid...”

            Halfway through their silent march to the Palatine Hill, Vannus reached out to hold Celatus’ hand, and did not let go until they arrived. Sollemnis’ house was a like a beehive at work, with slaves, servants, and informants darting back and forth, coming and going, too fast for Vannus to follow (though Celatus’ darting eyes seemed to indicate that he was having less trouble). Sollemnis told them that Vitellius’ supporters were storming the Capitol, and that Vespasion’s legions were approaching with victory in their wake, and dismissed them within minutes, only holding them back to deliver an injunction to Vannus to “keep my little brother safe, soldier.”

            They marched back to the Aventine like a coward legion in retreat.

 

            “But why won’t it heal _faster?”_

            Vannus dodged a punch from a passing stranger and knocked them aside with the butt of his dagger.

            “Why won’t you stop bringing it up?” he snapped in return, pushing Celatus through the teeming streets, feeling secretly rather gratified whenever Celatus took the initiative and struck out with the one of Vannus’ daggers in his own hand. All they had wanted was to check on the damage done to the forum by the fighting factions; instead, they’d gotten caught up in the furore as Vespasian’s soldiers approached. Vannus tried not to think about what it meant to see Roman soldiers attacking Rome, even as he dragged a cowering soldier from their own courtyard on the via Pistoris.

            “It was only a burn,” Celatus tutted between heavy breaths, “it should have healed by now.”

            “First of all,” Vannus bit out as he took back the dagger Celatus was handing back to him, “I think you need to be reminded of the fact that I was _insensible_ for over a _week_ because of that burn, so it was not _only_ anything. Second of all – which one of us is the army-trained doctor?”

            Celatus merely soured, and his hand shot out to prod insensibly at Vannus’ right shoulder, making him flinch away with a hiss of pain. His lips went tight over his teeth.

            “I _will_ hit you, Celatus,” he growled.

_“Why,”_ Celatus insisted, “won’t it _heal?”_

            “Because I seem to have been cursed by my own favoured deity,” Vannus snapped. “First he shoots my left shoulder, then he burns my right, and all the while he’s saddled me with the most annoying, incompetent, careless partner in all of Rome!”

            Celatus bristled, drawing himself up. “I am not _incompetent –”_

            “Oh, Mithras and _Mars,”_ Vannus laughed bitterly, “you aren’t even _trying_ to listen, are you?”

            “I just want to know when you’ll be better again,” Celatus snapped, “surely you should be _better_ by –”

_“It is meant to be Saturnalia!”_ Vannus shouted, cutting him off. Though Celatus was stopped, there could be no silence in their street when a column of soldiers was fighting its way into the city by the Tiber so close, with the street crowds cheering on both sides. Vannus breathed, hard. “It is meant to be _Saturnalia,”_ he repeated, quiet but strong. “But instead of drinking and giving presents and seeing my friends, I am still in pain, I am suffering through your constant, heedless questions, and there are Roman soldiers attacking the streets of our city. Can you not muster – even the smallest amount of patience, because of all that?”

            Celatus seemed to be fighting back an expression of contrition. He pushed up his chin an increment.

            “Vannus,” he said, with forced calm, “do you know when your shoulder will be fully healed?”

            Vannus huffed a breath out through his nose.

            “Probably never,” he said, relishing the startled way in which Celatus’ eyes went wide and met his. “With another few weeks, the skin should be closed and the surface pain will go away. Next year, with any luck, I’ll recover from the weakness caused by the fever. But I doubt I will ever have the same use of this arm that I used to.”

            Celatus frowned. “But that’s not fair,” he said. “You’ve already lost movement in your other arm, you already had that arrow through it, you shouldn’t have to suffer the same fate twice.”

            It was pity, really, which softened Vannus’ features. Sometimes he forgot how very cloistered Celatus’ view of the world could be.

            “I could have died ten times over by this time in my life,” he replied. “I consider myself blessed as it is.”

            “Some blessing,” Celatus muttered. There sounded a clatter from the entrance to the building, and Celatus rolled his eyes. “I hate this war.”

            Vannus snorted as he grabbed the trembling shoulder-plates of the invading soldier’s lorica, and forced him back onto the street.

            “I pray Minerva brings you a distraction soon.”

 

            The Temple of Jupiter burned, the emperor was killed – again – and Celatus and Vannus carried wine and roast pork to Laevinus and Dido the day after the festivities – had there been any – would have ended. Seia, Menna, and Statius brought a little troop of Vannus’ colleagues and friends along to the via Pistoris for belated celebrations, and it transpired that Mykale and Hirtia got along rather well, when they finally met at Vannus’ insistence; and the new year approached with hesitant hope, despite the different emperor and the corpse-strewn streets. In all the city, Vannus saw no signs of the XV Apollinaris, and he never knew whether or not to be glad of their absence.

            Two days before the end of December, Vannus’ prayers were answered.

 

            Her name was Viola. When she arrived at CCXXIB via Pistoris, Celatus was busy sitting in Vannus’ lap and kissing him senseless, but with Hirtia’s slave’s introduction shouted across the building, he was immediately distracted. Vannus knew the importance of a puzzle well enough not to be disappointed at the interruption.

            She was a slave in a household just outside the city, known and named for her ability with flowers: when she introduced herself, it was with a sigh of resignation. She must have been less than thirty, and had a wide, delicate, pale brown face, with a splash of freckles across her cheeks and nose, and a very, very strange new offer of employment.

            “My owners can’t afford to keep me anymore,” she explained, quietly wringing her hands from where she sat, otherwise upright and composed, at their hearth. “They’re moving back to Alexandria, they’ve been trying to sell me rather than just free me, they need the money, and – well, it seems too good to be true, that’s all.”

            “What have they offered you, then?” Celatus asked, with his eyes going narrow. Standing behind him and leaning on the table by the tiny windows, Vannus was gauging his interest with satisfaction.

            “A thousand denarii to my old family, and manumission after six months, with a five hundred sestertii salary paid when I leave,” Viola said, with a significant tilt to her head and voice. “Clothes, food, and travel all provided by the family,” she went on, “I made sure to check – nothing is to come out of the salary they offer.”

            Vannus whistled. “I can see why you’d think it too good to be true,” he muttered, “that’s an extraordinary offer.”

            “And what do they ask of you in return?” Celatus asked, low and sharp, and Viola heaved a sigh.

            “That was my first thought,” she said, “there had to be something wrong. Sex, or violence, or keeping quiet about some bastard child, something like that. But all they want is for me to tutor their little son, look after the garden – and –”

            Here she hesitated, and Celatus leaned forward in his chair with a faint creak of old wood and nails.

            “And?” he pressed. Viola’s mouth went tight.

            “I have to cut my hair,” she said. As if in explanation, one hand of hers reached up to brush her hair over her shoulder for them to see: it was thick and curly, falling to her waist, and an unusual, dark auburn shade. “A whim of his wife, he said – Rutilius Yitro is his name, his wife’s I don’t know. They have two other slaves, a man and a woman – a dog for security – it’s some little villa out at Ostia, I’ve barely even been outside the walls of Rome, myself. I’m sorry, I don’t know how many details to give you –”

            “Anything and everything, I should think,” Celatus murmured. “No detail is too small in a case like this. Was the offer made before or after the emperor was killed?”

            “After,” Viola said, “but soon after. The dealer my owners have been working with brought him to me fourteen days after the Ides.”

            “Five days ago,” Vannus commented. “Why the delay?”

            Viola shrugged. “I didn’t know what to do,” she said. “My owners concluded that they would leave the decision with me, I went to two different fortune tellers, I tried to figure out whether I should trust the offer or not – then I remembered hearing about you, Cornelius. I know it’s not a mysterious murder or anything, but I’m honestly perplexed –”

            “No, don’t be sorry,” Celatus said. “This is a perplexing situation indeed.”

            “Do you think I have reason to be worried, then?”

            Celatus caught her gaze and held it, still and serious.

            “I cannot see any precise danger,” he said, slowly – “but I certainly fear that it’s there.”

            “So I shouldn’t take the offer.”

            Vannus pursed his lips, for he recognised the hint of disappointment in Viola’s voice.

            “That depends,” said Celatus with a faint smirk, “on how much you’re willing to risk to find out the truth.”

            Viola hesitated by a fraction of a moment.

            “I’ll admit it’s intriguing,” she said. “And the money _is_ very good.”

            Celatus’ smirk grew, and Vannus rolled his eyes.

            “Please,” he muttered, “don’t encourage each other further.”

            With a sudden glance up at him, Viola forced him into silence.

            “I’m willing to risk taking the position,” she said. “I like my hair, but it will grow back. The pay’s too good to pass up, and I should like to get to the bottom of things, no matter what they turn out to be.”

            Vannus conceded the point. By the time Viola left only a short while later, they had settled on a fee – a handful of asses compared to her expected salary – and that she would contact them as soon as she had taken up her new post or had any fresh information to pass onto them. Celatus buzzed with restrained energy, as if he were standing on the precipice of something extraordinary, and Vannus felt no need to urge him back from the edge.

 

            “I’m surprised your brother never told us to get out of the city,” Vannus mentioned over a plate of honeyed figs at dusk in their rooms on the kalends of January. Celatus sucked honey off the end of his finger before replying.

            “I assume he knew the trouble would blow over fast enough, this time,” he said, picking through the plate for the largest figs. “And now the Arretium villa has burned down, the nearest Cornelius refuge is all the way down in Brundisium. The Pompeii villa is a little closer, granted, but that one’s still used for business, it’s hardly a secluded place to hide.”

            Vannus rolled his eyes. “I don’t know why I’m surprised that your family owns more than one villa.”

            “Neither do I.”

            Vannus aimed a light kick at Celatus’ shins under the table and glanced out the narrow windows onto the street as he chewed his figs.

            “Do you really think it’s all blown over?” he eventually said, and Celatus shrugged.

            “The senate’s declared Vespasian as emperor, hasn’t it?” he said. “That must be the end of it.”

            “I doubt it,” Vannus muttered darkly, licking a drip of honey from the side of his hand. “Not everyone will be happy to just accept it.”

            “So there’ll be a few rebellions in the provinces,” Celatus drawled, “that doesn’t affect us. How does it feel, by the way?”

            “How does what feel?”

            “Your old commander, now emperor of Rome.”

            Vannus scowled at Celatus’ teasing expression.

            “Odd,” he said, in a plain voice. “He was a fine commander, and I’m sure he’ll be a fine emperor, but I never would have expected it to come to this.”

            “The difference between you and my brother, I suppose,” Celatus returned. “If I recall correctly, he identified the Flavian family as contenders for the throne ten years ago.”

            Vannus pursed his lips. “I don’t believe you.”

            “Small minds tend not to believe the indisputable.”

            Vannus kicked him again under the table, less lightly than before.

            “Watch your mouth, Celatus,” he said, “or I’ll remind you what _small minds_ can learn in ten years with the legions.”

            Celatus pouted, and, in retaliation, lashed out with one hand and left a smear of honey on the end of Vannus’ nose. The soldier flinched, blinked, and gave a bewildered frown, then ceased his chewing as he tried to cross his eyes to inspect the damage. He swallowed, and used a clean patch of his palm to wipe off the offending sweetness. The arched look he sent to Celatus from beneath his brow was uncomprehending.

            “When do you think we’ll hear from Viola?” he said, and Celatus shrugged.

            “Hopefully soon. She will have moved to her new position by now, but she seems intelligent enough to gather some information about the household before sending word. An empty message is barely more useful than no message at all. You still have honey on your nose.”

            Vannus glared, as if to say _‘And whose fault is that?’_ , and rubbed at his nose with the back of his hand.

            “I’ve never bought a slave before,” he said, checking his hand to see if he’d gotten the honey, “but surely a thousand denarii is a bit much for an ordinary household woman and gardener.”

            “More than that,” Celatus confirmed, “especially when the selling family is desperate to get rid of her. They would have settled for a lot less.”

            “Seems like not enough for Viola, though,” Vannus muttered, causing Celatus to frown at him.

            “Rome wouldn’t function without them, Vannus,” he said, with half a laugh. “They’re just slaves, they can earn their manumission if they try, but someone has to do the work they do.”

            “I suppose so,” Vannus sniffed.

_“Amulius, dear!”_ came Hirtia’s voice from the stairwell. _“There’s someone here with a message for you, come and pay her please!”_

            Celatus’ and Vannus’ eyes met.

            “D’you think it’s her?” said Vannus. Celatus merely grinned, and disappeared in a flurry of white wool and dark hair. When he came back a few moments later, Vannus had successfully cleaned his nose with the help of one of Celatus’ bronze mirrors from the table, and Celatus himself was a few asses lighter and bearing a pursed lip and a little papyrus roll. He tossed the papyrus to Vannus, saying, “Where’s the nearest place to hire a horse?”

            Vannus frowned, and read the letter, muttering the words under his breath.

 

_ V Veratrix C Celato et C Pisonis salutem dico_

_ Peto ut me apud Tabernam Cycneam Ostiae meridie crastini occurratis_

 

            “Will you come?” Celatus asked, with his nose in the kitchen cupboards, when Vannus had finished. “Will your shoulder allow it?”

            “I could ride well enough when I’d just been burned,” Vannus replied, deadpan, “I think I can handle it now.”

            Celatus sent a narrowed, flashing eye over his shoulder at his friend.

            “You collapsed and fell off your horse when you’d just been burned.”

            “I had a fever.”

            Celatus clicked his tongue and returned to the cupboards in order to pull out a half-loaf of bread and a jar of roasted chickpeas. “We’ll leave first thing in the morning.”

            “You think it’s serious,” said Vannus, putting aside the papyrus.

            “Viola is an intelligent woman,” Celatus replied, as he returned to the table. “If she merely wanted to give us information, she could and would have done that in writing. A request that we meet her in person indicates that the matter is either too complicated, or too sensitive, to be set down in writing.”

            “Or both,” Vannus returned. Celatus nodded his approval.

            “Or both,” he echoed; then added: “Can we take your weapons tomorrow?”

 

            They hired horses from a dealer near the Tiber just before dawn the next day. Bundled on their saddles were the chickpeas and bread Celatus had picked out the night before, as well as Vannus’ sword and daggers, rolled up in a blanket each: they were taking no chances. They rode hard, the wind whipping at their exposed faces and hands.

            The Taberna Cycnea was to be found not far from the eastern gate of the town. The air was filled with the stench of fish and slime, wet sand and rotting wood, but just behind it all lingered the fresh scent of the sea, which Vannus met with a confused mingling of admiration and regret. He had crossed the sea more than once before, and had enjoyed it, too; but the last time he had done so was his disastrous trip home after being dismissed from the legions, dishonoured and nearly crippled by injury and fever. If Celatus noticed the creases in Vannus’ brow (and it was impossible that he had not), he graciously did not mention them.

            Viola was waiting for them in a corner of the inn, seated behind a jug of watered wine and a plate of cheese and bread. Inside, it was warm and dark, the shutters drawn, the fire large, the few people adding to the heat inside. Even though Celatus – caught up in a case – would have no interest in food, Vannus felt half-starved after the ride, despite how he’d torn through the bread they’d carried on their few resting stops, and he bought a bowl of fried pork from the scowling Hispanian barman before joining the table. Viola’s hair had indeed been shorn: it was cut remarkably neatly, and close to her skull, emphasising its shape beneath the cropped auburn ringlets. She was wearing what looked like a very new stola, well-cut from good cloth in an unusually bright shade of blue, and looked a picture of good health. Only the crease between her brows gave anything away.

            “Viola Veratrix,” Celatus greeted her. “You’re well.”

            “I am,” she replied as the two men sat across from her. Celatus was uninterested in the pleasantries.

            “Tell us everything.”

 

            The Rutilii at Ostia – according to Viola’s hushed account – were an unnervingly ordinary family. The patriarch, Yitro, was pleasant enough, amiable, and prone to telling funny stories. His wife Ada, on the other hand, was a solemn woman: quiet and calm, with dark eyes that always appeared, to Viola, a little worried. She had more than once been seen in whispered argument with her husband, but both had always shrugged the matter off, discouraging Viola’s questions. They had a young son prone to tantrums, who delighted in catching and killing insects and mice; and there was a stepdaughter, from Rutilius’ first wife who had died some years earlier. The daughter, Viola was told, had gone to Athens seeking art and a husband. The household also included two slaves – Tibullus, a rough, Thracian man prone to unwatered wine, and his wife Tibulla, who was tall and always looked as if she had just bitten into something sour – and a dog that was minimally fed and kept locked up during the day, let loose in the walled garden for security at night.

            Viola did not like the dog.

            Then came the matter of her new stola. It wasn’t, in point of fact, new; Celatus had had that figured from the moment he saw it, and Vannus had had his suspicions, but she proved them right anyway. Something upon which the Rutilii parents had insisted, another of Ada’s whims. Like the hair. And how she was meant to sit in a certain spot in front of one of the narrow garden windows while she read poetry to the family: something about the light being better, and that particular corner of the garden pleasant. The new-old clothes fit her perfectly, but were all of particular shades and styles.

            “The daughter’s?” Vannus asked Celatus under his breath, though Viola could hear him.

            “Undoubtedly,” Celatus murmured in return.

            “But why do want me to dress like their step-daughter?” Viola added. “And is that what the hair is about, too?”

            “Maybe they like to pretend she isn’t gone,” Vannus shrugged. “Perhaps she didn’t leave them on good terms.”

            “Or perhaps,” Celatus added, in a conspiratorial tone, “she didn’t _leave_ at all.”

            “Making their expensive new slave up just like her does seem to smack of a guilty conscience.”

            “But then why the time limit?” said Viola. “They promised manumission after six months. We made an agreement.”

            “Bait to get you to agree?” Vannus suggested.

            “Or an indication of something else?” added Celatus.

            “When do you need to be back?” Vannus asked, suddenly wary of their conversation, but Viola merely shrugged.

            “Before dark,” she said. “I tended the garden this morning, and apart from their odd requests, they’re rather free with me. They let me go to the synagogue with them.”

            “You’re Jewish?” Vannus asked, a little startled, at the same time as Celatus said, “They’re Jewish?” Vannus looked at the bowl of pork he’d bought, and winced.

            Viola shrugged at them both. “I don’t know whether it’s a happy accident, or another reason they wanted to buy me,” she said, “but yes. And as I said, they give me many liberties. I almost feel bad for suspecting them of something.”

            Celatus smirked at that, and responded only: _“Almost.”_

            Viola could not deny the implication.

 

            In the end, Viola showed them the way to the Rutilii’s house, a broad villa just outside the town boundary which they could survey from the gate, whose plastered walls presented nothing but a blank, copper-painted face to the outside. Behind it – and just visible within one corner of the equally-walled garden – was a copse of beech trees, slender and bare in the winter chill. The building around the forum was a squat single storey, but Viola pointed to the second level of the section behind, undoubtedly around a peristyle.

            “They don’t want me to go there,” she said. “The second level. They say it’s because it’s empty, so there’s nothing to do but get dusty, but I haven’t yet had a chance to try.”

            “Intriguing...” Celatus muttered.

            “You should go back,” Viola went on. “There’s nothing they’ve done to make me think ill, but I always feel as if they’re watching me. I can go out as I please, but I wonder if they wouldn’t try to stop me if I went to the wrong places.”

            “Or the wrong people,” Vannus finished for her. “Let’s go back, Celatus,” he went on; “it’s getting dark, in any case.”

            “Thank you,” Viola added to them, in sudden haste. “What will you do now?”

            “We’ll be staying in Ostia,” Celatus assured her, “at the same tavern. Contact us immediately if something new happens. These Rutilii deserve investigation.”

            Viola nodded – there was no argument she could make against that – and left them, drawing a cloak around her shoulders and neck as she crossed the open road between the gate and the Rutilii’s house. Shivering further into his clothes, Vannus turned to Celatus.

            “We really should go back.”

            He was granted a slow nod, and Celatus’ narrowed, suspicious eyes, before they returned to the warmth, comfort, and food, of the tavern.

 

            “I don’t trust them, Celatus.”

            Vannus tucked his weapons away under his shoes next to the bed in their tiny room at the Taberna Cycnea, while, behind him, Celatus unwound his toga and draped it over the back of a chair.

            “Neither do I,” came the low response. “There is something undeniably sinister beneath those innocent freedoms they allow Veratrix. I only hope our client doesn’t fall foul of them before we can figure it out.”

            “She’s a smart woman,” Vannus shrugged, with a nonchalance that was mostly feigned, “she can keep herself safe.”

            Having stripped off his tunic, Celatus kicked his boots under the bed and rolled in, tucking the blanket around himself. Vannus noticed the movement, and looked over his shoulder – then stilled, chin still craned around.

            “You’re sleeping?” he asked, with hesitance. Celatus shrugged.

            “No.”

            Vannus took a breath.

            “It’s no accident we got a private room with one bed,” he said, “is it.”

            “Actually, it is,” Celatus mused. “Though I suppose, since the inn isn’t close to the water, it would be one of the emptier ones, not being as useful to the sailors coming and going. But I didn’t choose the inn, did I?”

            Vannus narrowed his eyes as he gingerly peeled off his tunic, careful of his shoulder, and sat down on the edge of the bed.

            “Are you being honest?”

            “Would I lie to you about this?” came Celatus’ high-browed response.

            Vannus snorted. “Of course you would.” As he slipped his legs under the covers and shimmied down, he caught sight of the transformation in Celatus’ expression, from wide pre-argument to close-mouthed, embarrassed concession. With a nod, Vannus finished: “I thought so.”

            “But I _didn’t_ this time,” Celatus insisted, shifting closer as Vannus lay on his side. “I did, however,” he went on, in a lower voice, “be sure to claim the side of the bed which would let me do this.” His fingers and hands were cold, but his chest warm, as he pressed close to Vannus’ back and draped one arm over his waist. “After all, you’re still being careful with your injury, so you would surely sleep on your left side...”

            Vannus did not try to fight the smile that was creeping onto his lips. He squeezed Celatus’ hand in his, and settled into the pillows.

            “I’m certainly not complaining about _that_ piece of management,” he murmured, eyes closing, voice a blur. Though he had kept it at bay, the ride to Ostia had exhausted him, and even if Celatus had the stamina of the goddess, Vannus needed to sleep.

            Celatus curled in even closer, and kissed the back of Vannus’ neck before relaxing back again. Quiet seeped into the room, only reinforced by the faint babble of the thinning crowd in the tavern below, and the lapping of river water meeting the sea. Vannus stroked his thumb across Celatus’ fingers in his; back and forth; soft and warm. Sharing a bed, they were not cold, even in January.

            When Vannus next spoke, it was like a hum, the quiet rumble of distant thunder on a hot summer’s night, rolling over the hills outside Arretium.

            “I’ve missed this,” he said. “Sleeping with you.”

            “Well,” Celatus returned, “the beds at the via Pistoris are too small to share.” He wasn’t halfway as tired as Vannus was, but there was something low and solemn about his voice nonetheless. Vannus shifted under his arm, a sort of shrug.

            “I’ve still missed it,” he said, softer even than before. Celatus leaned forward to kiss the back of his neck once more.

            “Me too.”

 

_“Cornelius Celatus!”_

            Vannus groaned, and burrowed further down into the covers.

_“Cornelius, there’s a messenger here for you!”_

            There was a huff of impatient breath at Vannus’ back, and though he tried to grip at the hand around his waist, it slid away, letting in a biting draught of air as the blankets were lifted back. Vannus curled in on himself, and grumbled some incomprehensible about the cold. The door opened and shut, muffled voices sounded from outside, and then Celatus was back, with the door snapping shut behind him. He tumbled back into the bed, but remained sitting, with his knees propped against Vannus’ back, body curved over him.

            “If it’s not from Viola,” Vannus muttered, hoarse with sleep, “it’s not worth getting up this early for.”

            “It’s from her,” Celatus mused, reading. Vannus let out a noise of disgust.

            “Not that I’m not interested, but there had better be something worth reading about.”

            By the interested hum that escaped Celatus’ throat, there was. Vannus finally relented and opened his eyes, blinked a few times, then shuffled over, rolling onto his back. He pressed his cheek to the curves of Celatus’ belly, by his hip, and peered up at what he could see of the letter.

            “What is it?”

            Celatus took a breath, and recited: “‘I am sure you would like to know this, but fear my position is currently too tenuous to go out. Last night, as I approached the house, I counted the windows on the second level, where I’m not to go. There are four in every outer wall, and two in every inner one overlooking the peristyle, all spaced evenly, in the style of the house. I went into the garden, and Rutilius found me there. I asked about the windows – they’re all boarded up at the rear of the house – and said that there would be a lot of spare room for guests and servants if they opened those rooms. He said to me, “What an observant young lady we’ve come upon! Who would have believed it?” Then he repeated himself: “Whoever would have believed it?” His tone was jesting, but there was nothing of a jest in his eyes. Suspicion, yes, and annoyance – but no hint of a jest. I fear I may have overstepped. I shall write again when I can.’“

            Vannus blew out a breath against Celatus’ stomach and, wincing, rolled off his bad shoulder and into a sitting position. As if on instinct, as soon as he was upright, Celatus slumped down with his head on Vannus’ shoulder and chest, the letter still in his hand. Vannus raised his arm around his back to hold him in place.

            “So what now?” he said. Celatus scowled.

            “We wait.”

            Vannus chuckled at that. “Well, I know you like to pretend to be immortal when on a case,” he said, “but I for one will be needing some food.” He patted Celatus’ shoulder twice, and sat up straight, dislodging him. “Will you want anything?”

            “No,” Celatus muttered. “I think I might see what else I can find out about that house...”

 

            Vannus spent the day wandering Ostia, to find the local bath and buy bits of food, while hoping they’d brought enough hard coin with them and trying not to think about what Celatus was up to. When they met again in the Taberna Cycnea that evening, over a meal which only Vannus ate, Celatus had nothing to report but that, having surveyed the Rutilius house, he was at least confirmed in his suspicions, if not in what those suspicions actually were.

            “Something’s happened to the daughter, undoubtedly,” was all he would say, with a twinge of frustration. “I don’t know what – but she certainly isn’t in Athens looking for art and marriage.”

            “But if something’s happened to her,” Vannus mused in an undertone through a mouthful of fish, “why would they make Viola look like her? Why go to _such lengths_ to make sure of it?”

            “They’re fooling somebody,” Celatus muttered. “Just who, I’m afraid, isn’t quite clear just yet.”

            They resumed their familiar position in bed that night, with Celatus’ arm draped over Vannus’ side and his breath warmth against Vannus’ back. He didn’t sleep – too busy thinking – but it was enough to know that he was there, and in the morning, when Vannus rolled onto his back, he didn’t need to use any words to ask Celatus for his mouth on Vannus’ mouth, his hand on Vannus’ cock, and the gradual build to ecstasy Vannus hadn’t been entirely sure he would meet again, as he tried and only slightly failed to keep his moans low enough to stay in their room alone.

            He kept kissing Celatus long after the fact, until the sun finally became too insistent, beyond the high, narrow window, to ignore.

 

            Viola’s next message came late that day: Vannus had been out near the docks, wondering if he might have to pick up some work for extra coin if they stayed in Ostia much longer, but Celatus was still at the tavern when it arrived. He was waiting for Vannus’ return, sitting cross-legged and close-eyed on the bed with a scrap of papyrus in hand, which he thrust out as Vannus opened the door.

            “I fear things can’t wait much longer,” he said in a dangerous monotone. Vannus frowned as he took the letter and read it with narrowed eyes. Its now-familiar scribble read:

_ Est homo ad domum spectat. Illecabra sum._

 

            “What she doesn’t say,” Celatus intoned, “is ‘come at once’ _._ Are you ready?”

            “Are you sure that’s a good idea?” said Vannus, unwrapping his cloak from his shoulders.

            “She says that she is bait,” said Celatus, “and I’m inclined to believe her – she’s intelligent, she’ll have her reasons. So: someone is watching the house, thinking he sees the daughter but seeing Viola instead. There’s reason to suspect that the daughter, then, is still in the house, or why would this man expect to see her there? It explains the boarded-up windows.”

            “The Rutilii don’t sound like the kind of family I’d like to run into,” Vannus suggested, deadpan. Celatus smiled at that, and finally opened his eyes.

            “Then let’s hope the Rutilii are social enough to feast for the Compitalia.”

            Vannus rolled his eyes, and slung his cloak back on.

 

            They were lucky. On the way to the city walls, Vannus and Celatus had agreed that, should the Rutilii be at home, Vannus would introduce himself as Caelius, an old friend of Viola’s there to congratulate her on her new position, and would get as much information from her as he could. As things were, it was Viola who opened the door at their knock, uttering a hushed, “Oh, _Bona Dea,”_ in relief and ushering them inside the rust-coloured house, whose walls and floors held in a secret parcel of warmth within the January chill. The light was dim with early evening, the villa itself sparsely-lit, and they emerged from the front corridor into an atrium with deep shadows in every corner and the fading sky reflected in tones of grey in the still water of a shallow pool.

            “They’re out for –”

            “Compitalia, yes,” Celatus interrupted her, “we guessed. The slaves?”

            “Went with them, I suppose,” Viola answered, “they’re nowhere to be found.”

            “And the dog?”

            “In the garden.”

            “Good.” Celatus ushered the little group into the forum where they could sit on the benches and talk. “Tell us everything.”

            “I was reading to them in the garden again, as usual,” Viola explained. “Ada said she could see someone outside, but when I turned to look, she and Yitro almost shouted at me not to. Yitro said – ‘some amorous young man, it will only encourage him – motion for him to go away’. I did as he said, but I took the chance – I’ve seen him before. Hanging around outside the house or garden. He must be a little older than me, north African, I’d say.”

            “Would you recognise him if you saw him again?” said Celatus.

            “I’m sure I would,” Viola replied, “yes.”

            “He thinks you’re the daughter,” Celatus returned, and Viola merely nodded.

            “Or at least, that’s what the Rutilii want him to think,” she said. “His persistence seems to tell me that he doesn’t believe them.”

            “The family brought you on because you resemble their daughter,” said Celatus.

            “And the cut hair?”

            “Illness?” Vannus suggested. “Lice? She lost her hair, or had it shorn off. The stranger clearly has some attachment to the daughter, or why else would they want _you_ to make him go away? If he thinks she’s the one living happily without him...”

            “No doubt this is all some ordinary plot to keep her dowry in hands of which the parents approve,” Celatus said, with a roll of his eyes, “but they’ve gone to extraordinary lengths to make sure of it.”

            Vannus snorted mirthlessly at that, and said, “I think it’s time we found out what’s in the locked rooms upstairs.” Viola rose, but she still looked frightened.

            “They might be back at any moment.”

            “Then there isn’t any time to lose,” Celatus returned. “Where are the stairs?”

            “Back here,” said Viola, as she lead the way back through a narrow corner to a peristyle overflowing with vines under every column and with neat paintings of something dramatic on the walls lit at sparse intervals by torches. “I don’t know for certain how the rooms are locked, but they must be – it might be padlocked, or barred –”

            “We have a soldier with us,” Celatus sniffed, “we’ll be fine.”

            “We have an _injured_ soldier with us,” Vannus clarified, “I make no promises.”

            At the far corner of the house, they reached a shadowy recess with a stairwell inside, and Viola plucked a torch from the wall with which to lead the way. Vannus drew his short sword as they climbed. At the top, they found a darkened corridor, dusty from disuse, and turned back on themselves towards the rear of the house. The shifting torchlight revealed a door which barred the way: across it, a thick iron rod rested in two closed brackets, each secured with a heavy padlock and chain. Without speaking, Celatus pushed forward and swooped down on one knee so he could inspect the locks, beckoning Viola and her torchlight closer.

            “Do you think you can break them?” Viola asked under her breath.

            “Break, almost certainly,” Celatus muttered, “that should be easy with my companion at hand. But it might be easier...”

            Outside, the growling bark of some large, hungry dog echoed up from the garden, which startled Viola and Vannus, but seemed not to affect Celatus, absorbed as he was in studying the locks. He pulled a case of picks and wires from the folds of his toga, as the dog barked again, short and sharp, for longer this time. Vannus’ eyes met Viola’s.

            “It barks at every shadow,” she whispered with a shrug. “It might not mean anything.”

            “Is there a window into the garden from here?” Vannus returned, equally hushed.

            “No,” Viola replied, “you’d have to go downstairs and check from the yard –”

            The dog barked again, followed by the distant-sounding slap of skin on stone, and a deep voice, muffled but audible:

_“Calm down, there, it’s only me.”_

            Viola stiffened almost imperceptibly; Celatus’ clicking work ceased. Eyes still on Vannus, Viola hissed, _“Rutilius.”_

            Celatus shot to his feet. “Stay behind us,” he commanded. “Vannus, break the locks.”

            For once, he felt no impulse to reply, even sarcastically. Vannus sheathed his sword and stepped forward – trading places with Celatus who watched the stairs like one of the penates come to life – drawing a dagger from his belt and gripping it hard. With a few short strikes and a little prising, he pulled apart the first lock, and without heed for the noise, pulled away the chain which secured the first bracket.

            Distantly, the heavy front door could be heard, groaning and scraping open. Celatus glanced back at the other two very briefly.

            As his breath quickened, Vannus dismissed the second bracket, and instead opened the first and tugged at the iron bar, bending and angling it until he could slip it out of the way.

            “Celatus,” he said, low and short, and held out the bar for the other man to take; in a moment, it was being held out towards the stairs in defence. But when Vannus tried the door handle, it stuck. Pushing back panic, he scrabbled about at the wood until his fingernails loosed a sliver underneath the handle which covered a small keyhole. His hands turned into fists.

            “What’s the delay?” Celatus hissed over his shoulder, impatient as ever; beyond him, the shadows in the stairwell had retreated by a fraction as the house was gradually lit.

            “It’s locked,” Vannus grunted, and stepped back. “Give me room.” Viola retreated to Celatus’ side, holding the torch high as Vannus braced one hand against the wall, and warned, “This is going to be loud.”

            As if by design, as soon as the words were out of his mouth, the dog barked again, and they heard a shuffle in the courtyard below, followed by Rutilius’ deep voice, much closer now.

            “Now, what is that? Venatrix, is that you?”

            Celatus’ gaze locked with Vannus’.

            “Break it down.”

            Vannus nodded. He sucked in a breath, leaned back on one steady leg, and kicked at the door just next to the lock. It shuddered, but did not open. The next kick heralded a splintering sound, and significantly more give, as well a shout from the courtyard and the sound of approaching steps. Viola let out an earnest gasp – _“Hurry!”_ – and Vannus adjusted his position, leaned back again, and –

            Under his foot, the door crashed inwards. Within moments, Vannus had rushed inside, followed by Viola with the torch and Celatus with iron bar raised, before he slammed the door shut behind them and braced his shoulders against it. The room they found themselves in was long and dark, richly-furnished in wood and cushions with all the comforts of a young Roman woman: a broad bed, cupboards which spilled fine dresses and boots onto the floor, and a dresser littered with mirrors, brushes, pins, and make-up, all scattered haphazardly across the surface. There was a table and chairs, some heavy trunks and chests, a sofa, even a basin full of fresh water on a stand.

            And it was freezing cold. And empty.

            Viola’s torch, though paltry, illuminated enough of the room to be able to see that there was no one inside, despite all the obvious signs of habitation. From the door, Celatus slowly stood, then advanced, looking about him with flashing eyes in a falling expression.

            “What –”

            With a less powerful crash, the door burst open again, admitting a tall, broad man, handsome in the conventional African way, with a broad nose and proud eyes over his high cheekbones. There was a knife in his hand.

            “What is this?!” he shouted, flourishing the blade at them. “Who are these people, Venatrix, why are you here, get out!”

            He advanced on them as he spoke, prompting Vannus to step forward with his sword held before him.

            “Where is your daughter?!” Celatus cried from behind him, seeming far too eager to jump forward with only the iron rod against Rutilius Yitro’s knife.

            “That’s entirely none of your concern – _get out!”_

            He stepped forward again, and again Vannus stepped to match him, raising his sword; but they were both stopped by Viola’s voice, hushed and curious, as she gripped Celatus’ arm and looked behind them at the room.

            “Cornelius –” she said, and they all followed her gaze to the furthest window from the doorway, which was no longer – like the others, like Viola’s report – boarded shut, but wide open, with a few splinters of wood and nails at its edges on the outside, and letting in the draught which so chilled them even inside the warmth of the expansive home. Rutilius Yitro’s face fell.

            “Thieves!” he shouted, as his face transformed and creased into something fearful and chilling. “Spies and thieves – I’ll have you for this, I’ll have you!”

            Vannus tightened his grip on his sword – but suddenly Rutilius turned, and sprinted out of the room towards the stairs. Celatus leapt to the broken-open window, at the same time as Vannus started to follow Rutilius and Viola screamed, “No, _don’t!_ He’s gone for the dog!”

            But even as Vannus skidded to a halt and reached for the door to shut them in, they heard the great dog’s barking start up again, followed by the rattle of the garden door – and a terrible scream. Viola’s face fell, and she uttered a horrified _“Jupiter, Juno –”_ , at the same time as Vannus groaned “Mithras and Mars,” and tore the door back open. He sprinted down the stairs and into the newly well-lit courtyard of the peristyle, where Rutilius was on the ground by the back wall of the house, struggling under the maw of a huge, dark, sleek hunting dog. There was blood sprayed on the ground under Rutilius’ neck, and it was no matter that he seemed like a horrible man: Vannus sheathed his sword and ran forward.

            It was a good thing the hound was so distracted by its prey. Without any attempt at subtlety, Vannus grabbed at its rope collar from behind and hauled it away from Rutilius’ choking, keening form. The dog was so intent on its master that it paid no heed to Vannus until they were well away, and by then, Vannus had got a good grip on its scruff and wrestled it down, and though it squirmed and growled, it could get no angle on Vannus himself. As they struggled, Viola and Celatus appeared at the bottom of the stairs, and Vannus forced an order between his gritted teeth.

            “See to Rutilius!” he managed, as he darted his elbow out of the way of the dog’s front claws, and immediately Celatus obliged, and turned his path towards the felled man. From the corner of his eye, Vannus could see as he and Viola pressed their hands to the gashes on his neck and shoulders, and wondered if it would do any good.

            “I don’t think he’s conscious anymore, Vannus,” Celatus called across the courtyard in a voice which had begun to tremble, “what do we do?”

            “Try to stop the bleeding,” Vannus grunted, the dog beneath him starting to calm. “Use your toga if you have to!”

            Celatus hesitated, but Viola needed no prompting. While Celatus pressed his hands hard to the bloody mess on Rutilius’ neck, she whipped the toga from around his shoulders and sharply, expertly, tore off a long strip, and then another, to fold against the wounds. The cloth soaked through almost immediately, but Viola kept at it, tearing more from the voluminous garment until they had enough to cover the wounds and then wind carefully around Rutilius’ neck and shoulders, holding the lot in place. Below Vannus, the dog gradually stilled, then began to whine at him, looking around with the whites of its eyes all too visible, and Vannus eased up with his weight.

            All of a sudden, with a clatter of running feet, there appeared from the atrium a bony, Italian woman, taller than Celatus, with a pinched face and an expression of awful grief.

            “Juno protect us,” she sighed – “if you’d only told me!”

            “Who’s this?” Celatus frowned from where he crouched over Rutilius, but Viola was already rising to her feet.

            “What do you mean?” she asked, but the older woman shook her head with her fingers pressed to her mouth.

            “She was already getting out tonight,” she said, her sour face falling into pity. “If you’d told me – I’m sure he only came back to look for me, we could have...”

            Celatus let out a short growl of frustration. “Help us get this man off the floor,” he demanded, “then tell us everything.”

 

            They carried Rutilius Yitro into one of the rooms around the atrium, with a warm hearth, a plush sofa, and a small collection of mismatched chairs to sit on. Viola fetched meat from the kitchen to pacify the dog, which sat down a slobbered next to Vannus’ chair. Then Viola introduced them to the tall woman – Tibulla, one of the other slaves – and they sat together, with Vannus keeping one eye always on Rutilius, who remained unconscious, but whose wounds had slowed in their bleeding, and who kept on breathing all the same.

            “What about Ada?” Viola asked before Tibulla could begin. “And your husband? Won’t they wonder where Yitro’s gone?”

            The woman only shrugged in return as they all sat. “They’re feasting,” she said. “He came back to look for me, perhaps he got distracted – they won’t notice how long he’s been gone.”

            “And I hope by that time we’ll have made ourselves very scarce indeed,” Celatus muttered. “Please, Tibulla,” he went on, in a stronger tone – “explain.”

            Tibulla looked at him, incisively sharp. “How much do you know?” she asked.

            “The Rutilii have a daughter from the first marriage,” Celatus replied, “whom Venatrix was hired to impersonate. She was recently ill and had to have her hair cut off, and was locked in the upstairs room to keep her away from a man from before her illness who was seen lurking about – presumably he intended to marry her but the family wanted to keep the dowry, either in their own hands or at least not in the hands of the lurking man. Am I right?”

            “On every count,” Tibulla nodded. “Aia, is her name – after her Germanian mother, Yitro’s first wife. She wanted to marry a friend of hers, Avidius, but he’s a freedman – Yitro and Ada would never have it. Not for their daughter, and not for their dowry. They fought over it, terribly sometimes. I never really liked Avidius myself, but as far as I’m concerned, what Aia thinks is best for her probably is.”

            “Some months ago, they fought even harder than usual.” Here, Tibulla’s face grew longer and more pinched with sadness. “They were stamping around the house, chasing each other, until Yitro pushed her into one of the cabinets in her room. He knocked all the vases from the top shelf, one of them fell on her head. They had to bring a surgeon in to fix her skull.”

            “And shave off all her hair in the process,” Vannus finished for her. “Apollo protect her.”

            “He did,” Tibulla continued. “It took a long time, and many prayers, but she recovered. And still she refused her father. She wanted to marry Avidius, that was all there was to it.”

            “So they locked her up?” Viola asked, incredulous. “Locked her away and hired me to – to pretend to Avidius that she didn’t care anymore?”

            “That was it exactly,” Tibulla said with a heavy shrug. “Yitro and Ada thought that if he thought he’d been refused by Aia herself, he’d give up, and they could marry her off to someone they preferred. Someone with better connections.”

            “And now?” Celatus asked, archly. Tibulla smiled thinly at that.

            “The family was going out for a Compitalia feast,” she said, as if that explained itself. “I’ve been speaking to Aia and Avidius without Yitro’s knowledge – we decided that would be the best time to break her out. It was dangerous, with the dog around, but we found a way for him to climb to her window from the garden wall. They’ll be halfway to Rome by now, and from there to Brundisium. Avidius has an uncle there, a shipmaker. They’ll be married in a week.”

            “And, I assume, they took Aia’s healthy dowry with them,” said Celatus, and Tibulla and Viola both smiled.

            “It’s her property once she marries,” Tibulla said, small and wry. Vannus looked down again at Rutilius’ breathing body.

            “We should inform the rest of the family of what’s happened,” he said, sobering. Rutilius Yitro was not a very good man, but that didn’t mean his household would be unaffected.

            “I’ll get them from the feast,” said Tibulla. “Venatrix can look after things here.”

            “And in the meantime, I believe, we should disappear,” said Celatus in a sly tone. He and the rest of their little party stood. “I do wish we’d known you to be on the daughter’s side, Tibulla,” he said, extending his hand to her, first. “A lot of anxiety and bloodshed might have been avoided.”

            “But Aia is happy now,” Tibulla answered, gripping his hand and arm. “That’s what matters to me.”

            “Go and fetch your household,” Celatus finished, and it sounded less like an order, and more like submission to her authority. She left without another word, and Celatus turned to Viola.

            “Viola Venatrix,” he said, with a smile that Vannus saw more in his eyes than in his mouth, “you certainly have brought us something interesting.”

            “Not that interesting,” she said, shrugging. “A woman going against her father’s wishes about her marriage is hardly the most original mystery.”

            “And yet it started very mysteriously for us,” Celatus replied. “Thank you for bringing it to us. I somehow doubt the Rutilius family will require you to stay on for the rest of your agreed contract,” he went on, casting an imperious glance down at Rutilius’ insensate, form – “however. If, in the event of your dismissal, your pay or manumission rights aren’t satisfactory, do feel free to contact us again. My brother knows some excellent lawyers whom I’d love to torture with representing a slave.” He smiled and held out his hand to her. “Good health and fortune, I hope, will find you.”

            Viola – with a fine smile on her freckled face, her cropped auburn hair glowing in the firelight, decked out in a wealthier woman’s clothes – took his hand, then stepped close to kiss his cheek.

            “My thanks, Cornelius Celatus,” she said. “And to you, Caelius,” she added, turning to him and gracing him with a handshake and a kiss. “I don’t know what I would have done without your counsel, or what would have happened to Aia Rutilia.”

            “Happy to help,” Vannus shrugged. “And try to feed that dog a little more, would you?” He glanced down at the beast which – fully-fed and satisfied – had rested its head on its huge front paws and dropped into a doze next to Vannus’ chair. “A threat to burglars doesn’t have to be a threat to the family, too.”

            “I know I already paid you what we agreed on,” Viola said, “but I feel it wasn’t nearly enough for what you ended up needing to do.”

            Celatus waved the matter away. “The case was its own reward,” he said. “Keep the money for your manumission, you’re sure to need it more than us.”

            “Let’s go,” said Vannus, with a gentle nudge at Celatus’ arm. “The rest of the family will be back soon, I don’t think we want to be seen hanging around their wounded patriarch.”

            “I’ll clear everything up without mentioning you,” Viola smiled. “Thank you. And keep yourselves safe.”

            Celatus smiled at that, a sly little grin in perfect counterpoint to the dry breath of laughter that Vannus gave.

            “And where would be the fun in that?”

 

            Celatus and Vannus washed the blood on their hands off as much as they could, in a bucket in the yard behind the Taberna Cycnea, and agreed to go to a proper bath first thing in the morning before returning to Rome. It was late by the time they went to their rooms, ignoring the glowering barman downstairs, and undressed, before all but crawling into bed. Vannus had been worn out by the night’s exertions, and the lingering anxiety of the previous days, while Celatus hadn’t slept at all since they arrived in Ostia, too busy letting his mind churn over Viola Venatrix’s problem. There hovered over them a veil of sleepiness and solemnity which hushed their voices and seemed to tug Celatus inexplicably ever closer to his friend. Curled close behind Vannus, Celatus kissed each knob of his neck, then the edge of the burn on his shoulder, and held him tight before relaxing towards sleep.

            “And all over the price of her dowry,” Vannus mumbled, as he stroked Celatus’ arm, slung over his waist.

            “She wouldn’t have come to us if not for the extraordinary offer of payment, either,” Celatus replied, and tilted his head forward until his forehead and his rich curls rested between Vannus’ shoulder blades. “Remarkable, isn’t it.”

            “What people will do for money?” said Vannus. “Not really.”

            “Preposterous,” Celatus murmured. Vannus’ answering laughter was drowsy, quiet, and short.

            “You’ve never lived without it, love,” he said. “You wouldn’t know.”

            Celatus’ words were beginning to slur into one another. “I suppose that’s why I have you,” he said.

            “Well,” Vannus sighed, “one of the reasons.” He breathed – in; out – and closed his eyes. “Go to sleep.”

            But his order had been obeyed before he said it.

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, yes, I know it's been about a million years since I last updated this fic, and I am so, so sorry for that. I went into a postgrad degree in creative writing, so all my reading and writing time was being spent on assignments for that, plus an obsession with _Les Miserables_. This part probably doesn't make up for the long (LONG) absence, but I've got a groove to get back into, and it hasn't been easy. I wanted to get it out as quickly as possible, so let me know if I missed anything in my shabby editing.
> 
> As to the chapter: Roman inclusive counting strikes again, with the dates. The timing for the storming of the Capitol and Rome by Vitellius and Vespasian's troops are, as usual, taken from D.S. Levine's translation of Tacitus' _Histories_ , but other sources sometimes have a day or two's difference, so apologies if you're used to something else.
> 
> I have no idea what the locative form of 'Ostia' actually is, but hopefully my assumption isn't wildly off. And speaking of Ostia, did you know it's the site of the oldest known synagogue outside of Israel, dating back to Claudius' reign? Figured it wasn't worth setting something in Ostia if I couldn't have some Jewish characters to take advantage of that. Of course, this is also still the Roman Empire, and a rich family needs to go to the right feasts to make social connections...
> 
> On that note, and finally, I don't really know much about the Compitalia, and there's no evidence it was on January 4 in AD 70; but it was apparently usually celebrated in early January, so my flimsy excuse to get the Rutilii out of the house will have to do.


End file.
